The Death Collector by Justin Richards Read Free Book Online

‘Did you know Percy Smythe?’ he asked.
    Lorimore shook his head. ‘No.’
    â€˜He suggested you might be able to help.’
    Lorimore raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? He was the man who died last night, is that right?’
    â€˜He was murdered.’
    â€˜Indeed.’ Lorimore was regarding George carefully. ‘I have to confess I am now even more at a loss as to exactly what you expect from me. You offer to let me have a scrap of Glick’s diary. The final scrap, or so you claim. Yet I have no idea what you are asking for in return.’
    George was as confused as Lorimore now. ‘I have a piece of the last page of the diary, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But I mentioned that only in passing. I thought you knew Smythe somehow. He told me you could help.’
    â€˜Help?’
    â€˜Help me find the people who killed him, the person responsible,’ George said. He could feel his eyes pricking as the image of Percy’s dying moments welled up in his memory. ‘That’s what I assume he meant.’
    Lorimore’s mouth moved as if he was literally chewing over what George had told him. ‘Well,’ he decided, ‘perhaps if you allow me to see this page fragment, I might have a better idea of how your friendthought I could help.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘May I?’
    â€˜Of course.’ George too stood up, reaching into his inside pocket. ‘I have it here. In my –’ He broke off, patting at his jacket in a sudden panic, reaching into each of the pockets in turn. ‘My wallet.’ He could feel the colour draining from his face and his stomach seemed to drop away as if he was falling from a great height.
    Lorimore’s long fingers snapped impatiently, like gunshots. ‘Well?’
    â€˜My wallet,’ George repeated. ‘My wallet’s gone.’ He was checking his trouser pockets now, although he never kept his wallet anywhere but in his jacket. ‘I can’t find it.’ He looked at Lorimore for help, aware that his mouth was open and his face pale.
    Lorimore sighed, his whole frame moving with the sound. ‘How much?’ he asked.
    George blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’
    â€˜How much do you want?’ Lorimore had no trouble finding his own wallet and opened it for George to see. He riffled through the folded bank notes inside.
    â€˜It’s all right,’ George said, thinking he must be offering to pay for his cab or train home. ‘I’ll manage.’
    The large man’s eyes narrowed. ‘For the page,’ he hissed angrily. ‘How much do you want for the page from Glick’s diary?’
    George shook his head in confusion. ‘I don’t wantanything. I just want my wallet back.’ He could not have left it at home – he had needed it to pay for the underground. ‘Don’t you understand?’ George said, close to panic, ‘I don’t have the page.’
    Lorimore all but ripped notes from his own wallet. ‘Fifty,’ he snapped.
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’
    â€˜All right – a hundred.’ His eyes were wide with anger and passion. ‘Name your price.’
    George just stared. Part of his brain was struggling with the fact that the man was willing to pay a fortune for a scrap of burned paper. Another part was trying desperately to work out where his wallet had gone. His mind was retracing his journeys that day at high speed – to the Museum, out again to the underground, arriving at Gloucester Road station unsure of which way to turn …
    â€˜That boy,’ he realised. ‘He must have taken it. When he bumped into me.’
    â€˜Boy?’ Lorimore demanded angrily. ‘What boy?’
    â€˜There was a boy.’ George tried to replay the events in his mind’s eye. ‘I thought it was an accident, but he must have meant to walk into me. Then in the tangle, as I stumbled, he took my